The Rise And Fall of Chaos
by Synoran
Summary: America's story is one of both trial and error, and eventually leading to its fall. Various countries look back at the impact Alfred made in their lives, illustrating his story of the past 150 years.


Author Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia and all characters belong to Hidekaz Himayura, and I do not claim to own it. The following is a fanwork, and the only thing I own is the writing.

Hey guys! This is my first time publishing a fanfic here, so I hope you enjoy. You'll notice I take certain parts of canon in this chapter, but I'll be branching to AU in the following chapters. England takes center stage for now, but the story will be told from multiple points of view. Thank you for reading! -Synoran

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_**He Won The World**_

**Alfred had the world** on the tips of his fingers. It would take just a flick, or a turn of his wrist to have anyone he wanted doing whatever he wanted, before he could drink his morning cup of coffee.

It was a beautiful thing. And it lasted much longer than he, Arthur, Ivan, or frankly anyone else expected. But the sun sets on every empire once and a while. It's the natural flow of human power, world order, and world catastrophe.

It was the way it has been and the way it will be. Alfred of the United States of America was no different. He had used more lies, more excuses, and more manipulation than possibly all of them combined. And perhaps, his collapse was the most violent of all.

_**Letters To No One**_

**Arthur tapped his pen** against his desk, resting his head on his wrist. Outside was his kind of day, rainy, yet not a catastrophic storm. He had the window open, the shades preventing the almost-pouring water from tarnishing the hardwood floor of his office. In front of him, Peter was furiously jotting down the end of a story, which he had absolutely insisted on writing down. Though his handwriting was by far sub-par, Arthur figured that patching it up once completed wouldn't be that hard.

He waited before Peter's pen stopped moving to continue. He looked back at his notes, surprised to see that they had reached their end. "The End."

Peter looked up, his blue eyes wide with curiosity. "Huh?"

Arthur nodded, his eyelids suddenly heavy. The rain pounded against the screen, a rhythmic beating matching his heartbeat. It was… almost calming. He'd had enough stress to last him a millennia and then some, he decided. Peter hummed for a few minutes, every once and a while letting out a 'hmm' of confusion, as if he was contemplating the very workings of time itself. Arthur drowned it out for the most part, letting his eyelids fall limp, until his little brother's unnaturally high voice caught his attention.

"I still don't get it," he complained, pulling his chair in closer to his brother's desk, resting his chin on the glass-covered oak wood, his finger tracing the letters ARTHUR KIRKLAND on his nametag. Arthur's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. "Why?"

He sighed, setting down his pen, folding his hands under his chin. "It's… a long story," he decided finally.

"Tell me!" Peter began bouncing in his seat, and his eyes followed the boy until he started to develop a migraine.

"It's getting late," he shook his head, moving over to close the window. He deliberated for a moment, staring at the rain running down the glass. He walked towards the door, Peter on his tail.

"But why?" He demanded, still bouncing. "I want to hear."

"You will in the morning," Inside, he thought; _now kindly shut the fuck up. _"Let me go to sleep."

He crossed his arms, pouting in the doorway. "Fine."

They separated from each other, Arthur going left and Peter to the right, to their respective rooms.

He passed room after room down the mahogany hallway, easily making connections from doors to names and faces. Francis and Yao to the left, Ivan and himself on the right. At the end of the hall, a single door separated the two, the former quarters of Alfred F. Jones. He bit his lip, forcing himself not to look at the unceremonious door that once belong to his former colony.

It had been a while since Arthur had been considered a world superpower. About 200 years, in fact, at the end of the Second World War. He had ungraciously watched Alfred take over, who had already been dangerously on part with him in ups and downs since his independence. There was a time when Arthur would have affirmed without hesitance that he still held it against Alfred. That time had passed. Now, he resented him for something completely different.

He entered his room, locking the door behind him before he collapsed on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He knew everything from colonization to 9/11; it was just the past 150 years that threw him through a loop. He had written the U.S saga, letting Peter finishing it up knowing that he wouldn't understand. He barely understood what had happened to Alfred himself. It was all very black and white, yet still he had to wonder the infamous question, why?

He knew the story like the back of his hand, and due to the growing emotional pain it brought…

_Not tonight._

He undressed, climbing beneath the sheets, and turning off the his reeling mind, he fell asleep within seconds. That night, he dreamt he went to Boston again.

_**Boston**_

**There was a time** where Alfred loved drinking tea. Arthur remembered it all too vividly, and surprisingly, it served to be very bittersweet. He had raised him on it, after all, and drank it straight up until 1773, when he violently switched to coffee. But Arthur tried to ignore that, especially after all that had happened.  
He could still remember days of Alfred's childhood where they would drink tea at his house, idly passing the hours, making pleasant conversation, yet Alfred would clearly be on edge the entire time. With all the challenging remarks, subtle condescending tone, and frequent bursts of passion about freedom, it was a rather stupid wonder that Arthur couldn't have seen it coming before it hit him right in the face. Granted, he was his 'little brother', and he was too blind sighted to see the obvious signs of an upcoming power within the little, naïve boy he took as his own.

Even when the Revolutionary war instigated, he still wasn't all that terribly concerned. It's not like the boy was a match for him as it was, and frankly he thought all of it was silly.

_He has everything he wants, why the hell does he want more? _He often thought such things on a daily basis, watching from overseas while his man triumphed and fell, yet the latter did not dishearten him. He had been in enough wars over the years to know it was just how things went.

It wasn't until Christmas Eve that their world fell apart. The night where Alfred positioned the musket to his head, and he returned the favor. He, and army of one, the boy he raised, an army of over a hundred thousand at his back.

It was a surreal blur of what followed, masked by blind rage and strength only by adrenaline, to ignore the sinking sensation he felt, even before the heat of it.

_I've failed,_ was the truth, yet his mind was insisting, _I won't fail!_

"I want my independence," Alfred said simply, looking his former guardian straight in the eye. "I'm seceding from you."

He was certain his frame was visibly shaking; yet he ignored it, lunging for the other, pressing up on his musket.

Alfred's hands tightened their grip a moment too late, and his musket went flying, leaving the English man full permission to shoot, the nose positioned right between the American's eyes. The musket landed in the mud, precariously balancing before falling with a dull splash in the mud. His fingers clinched and unclenched inches away from the trigger, lightly brushing the metal, colder than should be normal with the falling rain.

Behind Alfred, the soldiers shifted, drawing their weapons. They all looked at him, their muskets pointing directly at his face, soon to be fired if he shot.

_Just shoot, _he screamed at himself, yet his muscles were unresponsive, his finger refusing to even touch the edge of the trigger. His knees buckled, fighting the urge to fall. "You idiot," he shook his head. "I can't shoot you."

He had just enough time to see the other man's eyes widen in shock before he collapsed to his knees, head in hands.

"God damn it!" He swore, body lurching with sobs he tried to hide. "Shit…"

He peeked beneath his eyes to see the newly freed country wearing a sad sort of smile. "You were so big back then."

And Arthur ran without looking back.

**Spiraling **

**Through the years**, though they eventually patched things up, their 'friendship' (if it could be called that) was always on the rocks. Even in World War II, Arthur had to wonder just what had happened since his independence, with Alfred rambling about things that he didn't even attempt to understand. But at least they weren't strictly fighting. On the side of the Allies, they prevailed, but at a cost.

At the end of the war, he was required to drop all of his colonies, which he had admittedly sort of lost count of. All his life, he had been beyond well to do, if only because of the large mass of land he owned. Though the loss of America admittedly did devastate him, he had enough colonies to fall back on. Though he knew he would never be _poor _per-se, he went from being the empire the sun never sets on to just another well-off country.

And he watched Alfred pass him up, instigating in the Cold War with his competitor, the Soviet Union. Though easier to imagine now, back then it was hard to fathom that Ivan and him were on even worse terms as far as 'allies' went than them.

But after that, they grew closer together, back to the friends they were. Admittedly, never to the extent of the brotherly bond they shared, but they both knew, somewhere deep inside, though they would never admit it, they were each their closest ally.

And Arthur had this on the back of his mind when the trade center fell.

Which is where his story starts.


End file.
